


Five (Or More) Uses for a Tie

by Selenay



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Clothes Porn, Humor, M/M, Romance, Surprising lack of bondage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-23
Updated: 2012-08-23
Packaged: 2017-11-12 18:04:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/494131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Selenay/pseuds/Selenay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was, admittedly, a small chance that he was panicking.</p><p>"Rope," Clint muttered. "What kind of fucked up aviator doesn't keep rope around?"</p><p>"My tie," Coulson said. "Use my tie. It should hold for long enough. I hope."</p><p>“Your tie. Right. Of course.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Emergency repairs to dirigibles

Clint had never really thought much about Coulson's ties. They were just there, a part of his suit that never seemed to change except sometimes in colour. Even on that mission in Marrakesh when the temperature was over a hundred and Clint had barely tolerated t-shirts during the hours in his sniper's nest Coulson had kept the ties on. His only concession to the heat had been to remove his jacket and roll his shirtsleeves up three precise turns.

In fact, Clint could not remember ever seeing Coulson without a tie now that he thought about it. Not that he had been keeping track or anything, but with a guy like Coulson there were some things that stayed memorable.

This mission was going to be memorable.

It wasn't just the dirigible that they had woken up on after being gassed and captured by Hydra during a raid on their base, although that was definitely unusual. What was going to be memorable was this moment.

"Are you sure this is going to work?" Clint asked, looking dubiously at Coulson's legs, which were the only part of him not inside the contraption at the centre of the dirigible's control room.

"Have you got a better idea, Barton?" Coulson asked.

That was the problem with a dirigible built by mad scientists: great for flying, not so great for steering or landing. Right now their dirigible was heading straight for a cliff and a link had broken in the steering mechanism so they couldn't turn or pull up.

In fact, the only thing keeping the dirigible from waggling madly in midair as it crashed was Coulson holding onto the two ends of the part that had broken. Even that wasn't going to work for long because they were both needed at the frankly ridiculous controls if they wanted to have any hope of actually turning the thing before it hit the cliff. Clint had half a mind to send a memo to Hydra or AIM or whoever had designed the dirigible pointing out how stupid it was to have a steering system that required at least two operators.

For now there were much more urgent problems to consider and there was, admittedly, a small chance that he was panicking.

"Rope," Clint muttered. "What kind of fucked up aviator doesn't keep rope around?"

"My tie," Coulson said. "Use my tie. It should hold for long enough. I hope."

“Your tie. Right. Of course.”

Half of Coulson’s upper body was currently inside the steering mechanism, because of course the stupid broken bit wasn’t easily accessible, and that meant his tie was in there with him.

“Barton, I need a hand here."

Clint knelt and peered into the mess of pipes, tubes, chains and cogs that made up the dirigible’s steering mechanism. He could sort of see where Coulson's hands were, but it was going to be a tight fit to get in and take over while Coulson took off his tie.

"What are you doing?" Coulson asked.

"Panicking," Clint said.

Coulson huffed irritably. "Well, can you take my tie off me while you panic? I'm sure your last eval praised your multitasking skills. Let's not make that a lie."

Clint swallowed. There was something terribly intimate about removing another man's tie and he wasn't sure that he wanted to think about Coulson that way because it would lead to more trouble than he wanted to deal with.

"Or you could continue to look for some rope while we smash into a cliff in slow motion, burst into flames and go down in SHIELD history as the only agents to die in a ten mile an hour dirigible crash. It's your choice."

"OK, fine."

Clint took a deep breath and wriggled into the steering mechanism, trying not to dig his elbows into Coulson's ribs even though it was a tight fit with very little maneuvering room. He ended up with his arms stretched overhead, his chin resting on Coulson's surprisingly muscular abdomen and a thankful appreciation for all the yoga that Natasha had forced on him over the years.

Coulson tilted his head up as much as he could to give better access and Clint carefully began unknotting the tie.

There was an undignified squawk and then Coulson said, "Barton, I'd appreciate it if you didn't strangle me."

"Have you ever tried this, sir?" Clint was operating mostly by feel and all he could feel was silk and a knot that didn't want to loosen. "Until you've tried to get another guy's tie off you don't get to complain about my technique."

There was complete silence and Clint glanced up to see just the faintest hint of red in Coulson's face.

Huh. Interesting.

He filed away that little piece of information for consideration later and slid the tie free. "Now what?"

"Well, if I let go the entire linkage will probably fly apart," Coulson said. "So you'll have to get up here and get everything tied off while I hold it together."

That required a lot more wriggling and then a couple of minutes lying almost on top of Coulson, their faces barely inches apart, and Clint was cursing every crazy Hydra scientist in existence by the time it was done. Getting out of the steering mechanism was as difficult as getting in had been and Clint was left with no illusions about Coulson's fitness levels by the time he was out.

Any illusions about his own indifference to Coulson himself had also been completely trashed and Clint knew that this mission would be memorable as the one where he acknowledged that he had a stupid crush on his handler. Nat was going to laugh herself sick when they eventually got home.

Coulson slid out of the mechanism smoothly, undid the top two buttons of his shirt and pointed at one of the work stations.

"It's too late to turn completely," he said, hurrying to another station, "but we might be able to crash in a controlled manner. Otherwise that was a waste of a two hundred dollar tie and you know that SHIELD won’t replace it."

Clint sighed, rolled to his feet and put all thoughts out of his mind beyond figuring out the controls.

***

As they trudged away from the burning dirigible to start the six hour hike to somewhere with a cell signal, Clint cursed himself silently. He had never thought too hard about Coulson's ties but it turned out that Coulson without a tie was something he would be thinking about for a long time.


	2. Zip lines, particularly relevant to poorly designed Hydra buildings

"Widow, what's your position?"

Clint peered around the corner, keeping an eye on the door where at any moment at least half a dozen Hydra guys were going to burst through, while Coulson did his handler stuff and made sure that the mission was actually going to work.

"I'm on my way out." Natasha sounded slightly breathless through Clint's ear-piece and there was the distinctive sound of gunfire in the background. "Timer's set for ten minutes."

"Understood," Coulson said calmly. "We'll be with you shortly."

"Boss," Clint said, "not to be the downer here, but how exactly are we going to be with her shortly? We're ten floors up and all the exits are blocked."

"Still got your grappling line?"

"Of course."

"Through here."

Clint took one last glance around the corner and the door was now shuddering as someone tried to smash it down. He turned and followed Coulson further down the corridor and through a set of double doors into what looked like a big conference room. There was a heavy sideboard near the doors and they dragged it across to block them off without even having to consult each other. This was one of the the reasons that Clint preferred to work with Coulson on missions: their teamwork. It wasn't due to his stupid crush, no matter what Natasha said after too much vodka and too many sad movies.

The far side of the conference room was lined with windows and as he ran over and looked out, Clint understood the plan.

There was another building below them and across the street - Hydra had actual streets in their complexes - one with a brick structure on top that probably housed a stairwell. Most importantly, the structure was at just the right angle and height for the grappling arrow and a zip line.

Clint grinned at Coulson, picked up a chair and threw it at the window.

Then he swore as the chair bounced off the window and nearly brained him.

"Smooth, Barton," Coulson said with a sly smile.

Clint flipped him off. Lately his automatic "fuck you" response had been causing some unfortunate mental images that were really distracting on missions. It was an another reason to hate dirigibles and any scientists mad enough to build them.

Coulson pulled out his gun and took out the window with two carefully placed shots.

This was the other reason that Clint preferred to work with Coulson: the man was competent to a sometimes terrifying level. Clint ruthlessly suppressed all thoughts about how hot that kind of extreme competence was.

"Your turn," Coulson said.

Glass crunched under Clint's boots as he stepped forward, nocked the arrow and sighted carefully. Wind-speed, arrow type, all the other tiny factors that could affect his aim raced through his mind without conscious thought and he released the arrow. He didn't even need to see it to know that it had hit its mark, the line playing out smoothly from its compartment in his quiver until it was at full stretch.

Clint released the line from its anchor and pulled it in until it was taught. Coulson had already dragged a chair over and located a suspiciously convenient bar above the window.

"Think they had the same idea we did when they built this place?" Clint asked as he handed up the line to be tied off. "That looks pretty strong."

"Maybe," Coulson said, efficiently attaching the line. "Or they could need this bar for other things. It shows a lot of scratches, the kind you get from chaining people to it."

"I'm starting to really hate Hydra," Clint grumbled.

"Then it's a good thing we're blowing up these Hydra labs in three minutes," Coulson said, starting to pull his tie loose.

Clint frowned. "What are you doing?"

"What were you planning to do?" Coulson asked. "Use your bow to slide down the line?"

"Well..." Clint hedged.

"Barton, your bow is an expensive piece of SHIELD-issued weaponry. Not a component in an outdoor adventure park. Please try to remember that."

"Because your tie is obviously much better," Clint said. "A two hundred dollar tie will definitely survive the friction of a hundred foot drop along a zip line."

"It's more like a five thousand dollar tie," Coulson said, pulling the tie free with a snap.

"How...how is that even possible?"

There was just the hint of a smug smile at the corner's of Coulson's mouth and yeah, that was absolutely what Clint needed to see right at this moment.

Fucking ties.

Coulson shrugged and began attached the tie to the zip line. "I asked R&D to make me something after the dirigible thing. We might not have crashed if the tie had held for longer."

"We were always going to hit that cliff."

"I was hoping for more of a gentle bounce than a catastrophic crash and slide motion when we did."

"So if I'm not allowed to use my bow," Clint said, slinging the bow safely across his chest, "what am I using? Don't tell me R&D made you a special belt, too."

"Don't be silly," Coulson said, giving his tie a firm yank to check it. "My belt definitely won't hold you. This might hold both of us."

"Might?"

Coulson shrugged. "It's only been tested with one. I'm confident that R&D overshot their specifications, though."

"I feel so much safer now."

"We only have around a minute before this place explodes," Coulson said, holding out a hand. "The zip line still has better odds than shooting our way out."

He was right and Clint knew that. It was just that Coulson had also unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt, exposing skin and a tiny bit of chest hair, and travelling the zip line together was not on Clint's top ten list of "best ever ways to hide a pathetic crush".

Natasha was going to have a field day with this when she found out.

Clint allowed Coulson to pull him up onto the chair. It was awkward but then Coulson wrapped one arm around Clint's waist, tugging them tightly together, and Clint had no choice but to mirror the movement. They each held onto the tie with their other hands and Clint took a moment to note that Coulson's neck smelled really good before they jumped away.

If Clint yelled "Geronimo" as they flew through the air, nobody including Coulson was telling.

It only took a few seconds to cover the distance and Clint somehow managed to turn them so that he took the impact as they crashed into the brick wall that held the grappling arrow. They released their grip on the tie together and dropped the couple of feet to collapse on the roof. Clint's breath was knocked out of him as Coulson fell onto him and despite the body armour of his field suit, Clint knew there would be some nasty bruises on his back.

He lay there gasping for breath for a moment and then, with a massive explosion, the Hydra office blew up.

Debris fell around them and Clint felt rather than heard several pained grunts as shards of masonry peppered Coulson's unprotected back.

There was silence for a moment.

"Well, the tie held," Coulson said, his voice a little muffled. "Huh. I'll have to let R&D know."

His weight lifted from Clint's chest a little and Clint opened his eyes so that he could see Coulson's slightly amused expression above him. A part of Clint's brain short-circuited for a moment because he had Coulson draped across his body and Coulson seemed to be happy to stay there for now.

"We'll give them flowers," Clint said, not really noticing what he said except that he needed to fill the void. "Maybe some fancy chocolates."

"I'll order a gift basket," Coulson said. "How are you feeling?"

"A little bit sore."

"Think you can make it out of here?"

"Absolutely."

There was a pause and Coulson raised one eyebrow.

Clint flushed as he realised that he still had one arm wrapped tightly around Coulson's waist, effectively trapping him there. He quickly shifted his arm to allow Coulson to roll away.

"Widow," Coulson said, tapping his earpiece which had miraculously survived the last few minutes. "We're on our way out."

"Jet's standing by," Natasha said.

Coulson stiffly got to his feet and held out a hand to Clint. There was a trickle of blood running down Coulson's neck into the collar of his shirt and his jacket was coated in dust but he managed to looked cool and calm despite that. Clint still felt too hot and flustered and he ignored Coulson's hand to stand unaided because getting hauled up against Coulson's chest again wasn't going to help.

"Time to go home," Coulson said and led the way to the stairwell.


	3. Make-shift weaponry because who expects the tie-based assault?

"They really bought into that mild-mannered paper-pusher image, didn't they?" Clint said grumpily.

Coulson smiled blandly. "On this occasion, it does seemed to have worked out well for me, yes."

"They didn't even leave me my boots," Clint continued. "I'd just got them broken in right. What the fuck did they think that I was going to do with boots?"

"I can think of at least five things off the top of my head," Coulson said.

"Without the laces?"

"With the laces I can think of another six." Coulson shrugged. "I'd take it as a compliment to their confidence in your ability to improvise. They did leave you with your shorts."

Clint glared at him. "Yeah, because my modesty is the thing that I'm worried about in a freezing cold cell in the middle of a fucking Hydra base."

"They did take my belt and my watch," Coulson pointed out.

"But they didn't take your tie, your shoe laces or even your jacket and they put you in a cell with me. Idiots."

"They didn't think things through completely," Coulson agreed. "It's a failing that I've noticed several times."

"So, how are we getting out of here?" Clint asked. "As you're the one with all the assets in the 'what do we have, what do we need' equation."

In answer, Coulson shrugged out of his jacket, yanked off his tie and Clint cursed every single Hydra goon who had anything to do with his current lack of clothing.

"Sir, I don't think stripping in sympathy is going to help," Clint said as Coulson pulled off his shoes.

Coulson rolled his eyes. "Don't get your hopes up."

"It's not my hopes that are up," Clint muttered under his breath and thankfully Coulson was too involved in taking his jacket apart to hear that.

Clint watched in silence for a minute as Coulson carefully ripped the seams of the jacket and began extracting what looked like slim black lock-picks and possibly a thin garrote.

"I don't know anything about designer suits," Clint said, "but I didn't think that Dolce had those kinds of add-ons."

"I got R&D to make some adjustments," Coulson said. "It was the only way to get SHIELD to replace the ones that get destroyed on missions like this."

"That is...really devious," Clint said with admiration.

"Thank you."

The heels of Coulson's shoes revealed hidden compartments with what looked like flat, smooth rocks in them. That puzzled Clint for a moment until Coulson attached them to the ends of his tie, closed the compartments and put his shoes on again.

"Sir, did you sneak a bolas in with us?" Clint asked.

"It's similar, yes," Coulson said.

Clint didn't know which was hotter: Coulson looking slightly disheveled for once or the fact that he'd snuck in weapons, a set of lock picks and who knew what else right under the noses of Hydra.

After a moment's consideration, Clint decided it was the James Bond-style concealed weapons.

All that Clint had managed to do was get captured, get stripped and end up in a cell without even a boot to throw at someone. It all seemed a bit unfair. Natasha would never let him live this down.

"Think you can handle the locks?" Coulson asked, holding up the picks.

Clint grinned. "In my sleep."

He stood and stretched, working out the kinks from an hour sitting on a cold floor, and grabbed the picks before kneeling in front of the door. Coulson coughed and Clint frowned.

"You OK, sir?" he asked.

"Fine," Coulson said, sounding slightly strangled. "Frog in my throat."

It took Clint a few minutes because although Hydra hadn't had the brains to use something that wasn't mechanical they had at least paid for half-decent locks. Eventually the tumblers fell and the door clicked open slightly. Clint's knees felt bruised and he took a moment to rub feeling back into his lower legs before standing.

"Do you know how to use one of these??" Coulson asked, holding out the make-shift bolas.

"Absolutely, sir," Clint said with a wide grin. "It would be my pleasure."

They were halfway down a corridor lined with cell doors when a huge guard emerged from around the corridor at the end. He was easily six and a half feet tall, maybe closer to seven, and Clint was morbidly certain that the guy would flatten him without thinking twice if he got too close.

The bolas made a singing sound in the air as he whipped it above his head and released, allowing it to fly down the corridor with unerring accuracy. It wrapped neatly around the guard's legs. There was a quiet snick sound and the guard bellowed loudly. He took one step forward, tripped because his legs were wrapped together and fell flat on his face with another yell.

Coulson was on him immediately, wrestling his gun away and clubbing him several times across the back of his head with the butt until he stopped moving. Clint jogged up to join him, his bare feet slapping on the floor, and he frowned as he spotted blood pooling around the guard's legs.

"Sir," he said, trying not to sound worried. "Did that bolas have razor-sharp points in the weights that were set to extend the moment it wrapped around someone?"

"We hoped that would be the effect, yes," Coulson said calmly.

"You couldn't have warned me about that, you know, in case it wrapped around me rather than my target?"

Coulson gave him a level look. "I had faith that wouldn't happen."

The words put a warm glow in Clint's chest and he had to fight to hide a pleased grin at the rare praise.

"Ready to move on?" Coulson asked.

"Hang on a moment."

Clint crouched by the guard's feet and began carefully untying and stealing his boots. It was a shame to leave the bolas behind but Clint couldn't see a way to untangle it without slicing his hands to pieces. He wasn't passing up the opportunity for boots, though.

Escaping a Hydra base wearing a pair of boots and his underwear. There wasn't going to be a bribe large enough stop Natasha spreading this one around SHIELD.

"Barton, those boots are going to be at least five sizes too large," Coulson said.

"I'll take blisters over extracting seventeen shards of glass from my feet again, sir," Clint said as the second boot slid away to reveal the guard's holey socks. "They're faster to heal."

"Hold on," Coulson said, pulling something out of a pocket.

It was a length of dark grey fabric and he tore it in two before throwing both pieces to Clint.

Clint caught them and raised his eyebrows. "Is this one of your jacket sleeves?"

"You never know when something like that might be handy to have."

"You were a boy scout, weren't you?" Clint asked as he stuffed the fabric into the boots.

"That information is classified." A smile twitched at the corner of Coulson's mouth. "But I do believe in being prepared."

Clint concentrated on getting his feet comfortable in the boots. "Sir, I have one question."

"Only one?"

"You were supposed to be at the secure extraction site," Clint continued. "How did you end up here?"

There was quietly exasperated sigh above him and Clint looked up to see irritation on Coulson's face.

"The extraction site was compromised," Coulson said.

"Huh."

There was a pause. "A patrol got lucky."

"OK."

Another pause and then Coulson said, "Someone didn't use the washroom before he started his patrol."

Clint stood up and stamped carefully in the newly stolen and poorly fitting boots. "You got compromised by someone taking a leak in the bushes."

"I think he was as surprised as I was." Coulson shrugged. "He had time to use his radio, though."

"That is really bad luck," Clint said sympathetically, checking the guard over for anything else he could steal and triumphantly holding up a Taser. "Swap?"

"No thank you," Coulson said. "I'm fine with this one."

"Permission to make a comment about your preferences for large guns, sir?"

"Permission denied."

Clint shrugged philosophically. The glint of humour in Coulson's eyes always betrayed him, even if most people missed the tell.

"Do we have a plan?" Clint asked as they began to make their way carefully up the corridor.

"Well, I thought we'd try to sneak out," Coulson said calmly, "and if that doesn't work, we'll shoot our way out. Natasha should be arranging some back-up for us."

"Great, I was absolutely hoping that Natasha would be a witness to this," Clint said, resigned to the fact that there were going to be photographs on the SHIELD intranet. "Fucking Hydra."


	4. Tourniquet, not gag

Clint had been on his fair share of missions that went wrong but this one was definitely winning the big prize.

Any mission that ended up with a knife at his throat, his arm twisted behind him to the point of near-dislocation so that a bad guy could use him as a human shield, and Coulson aiming a gun at both of them was definitely a contender in the bad mission prize stakes.

It hadn't started out badly. The first three days had actually been pretty good. It was a simple watch and wait mission, maybe taking a shot depending on what Natasha found out, but otherwise keeping an eye on their target through the sight of his rifle. His perch had been indoors with running water and hot coffee on tap and Clint had been forced to make up things to gripe at Coulson about just to have a voice in his ear telling him to shut up every now and again.

It was the voice in his ear that kept him sane through the long hours of watching, Clint had always acknowledged that at least to himself. Coulson was the only handler who had ever worked it out.

Clint was still not entirely clear how the mission had gone from bitching on a radio about the crappy instant coffee to _this_ so quickly.

"You should probably step away," Coulson said calmly. "Now."

The knife shifted against Clint's throat and someone had definitely been paying attention to the "keep your knives sharpened" chapter of the criminal handbook.

"Why should I?" the guy said. "Seems like I've got all the power here."

"Mr Jennings," Coulson said, "I think you're mistaken."

"How do you know who I am?"

A thin, bland smile appeared on Coulson's face. It was Clint's favourite smile: it was the one that appeared just before Coulson went all bad-ass on people.

"I know everything, Mr Jennings," Coulson said. "That's my job. I also know that you're about to have a very bad day, probably your worst yet."

"Want your boy back? Let me go and leave my boss alone."

"I'm afraid that I can't do that."

"Then your boy dies."

"That would be a shame," Coulson said, "but I'm not sure what it would achieve. If you kill him, you'll still be standing here with me pointing a gun at you except your shield will be bleeding out on the floor at your feet and that just makes my shot easier."

"I don't think you've got a choice."

Coulson shrugged. "You're assuming, of course, that I won't shoot the hostage. Bad assumption."

Clint had just enough time to think "oh shit" and then Coulson shot him and getting shot never got less painful. Never.

The echo of the gunshot rang around the room for a moment and the next thing that Clint was really aware of was that he was lying on the floor in an expanding pool of blood. He could feel something digging into his back and after a moment he realised that it was his ex-captor's knee.

"You shot me!" Clint exclaimed.

Coulson shrugged and moved over to nudge Jennings with a toe. "I shot Mr. Jennings. You were inconveniently located."

"You shot me!"

"Yes, Barton, I shot you." Coulson crouched next to him. "I was hoping you'd duck."

"It wasn't really an option," Clint said grumpily. "Ow! Fuck! Stop poking it!"

"Don't be a baby, it's a flesh wound."

Clint looked down and there was definitely a lot of blood pouring down his arm. "A flesh wound that's gushing. Thanks."

Coulson frowned. "I might have miscalculated."

"Miscalculated how?"

"I might have hit an artery."

"That's a bit more serious than a flesh wound, sir," Clint said. "Did you at least disable the guy holding a knife to my neck?"

"He won't be a problem again," Coulson said.

"At least my death won't be in vain then, sir."

Coulson rolled his eyes and began pulling off his tie. "You're not going to die, Barton. Stop exaggerating."

"You shot me. I can exaggerate if I want to."

Coulson held up his tie. "I can use this as a tourniquet or a gag. It's your choice."

Clint swallowed because he wasn't into gags and he was probably bleeding out very fast but Coulson threatening to gag him was still a turn on.

Fucking ties.

"Tourniquet," he said. "Definitely the tourniquet, sir."

"Good choice." Coulson paused. "This is going to hurt."

"I figured."

The next minute was one that Clint was definitely going to be blocking out for a long time because Coulson was right. It hurt far more than getting shot had hurt and his throat felt raw by the time Coulson had the tourniquet tied to his satisfaction.

"Back-up will be here soon," Coulson said.

Clint bit back a gasp of pain as Coulson slid an arm under his back and tugged him away from Jennings to lie flat on the concrete floor with his head on Coulson's thigh.

"I thought you said I wasn't dying?" he joked.

"Just thought you might want to be more comfortable while we wait," Coulson said. "I'd be happy to move you back, if you'd like."

"No, this is good." Clint tried to grin but he thought it probably came out closer to a grimace. "Is there some kind of compensation program out there for specialists that get shot by their handler?"

"SHIELD offers free trauma counselling."

"I'll pass."

There was a long pause and Clint was definitely starting to hallucinate because he was sure that he could feel Coulson's fingers in his hair.

"Sir, I think that I might be passing out soon," Clint said after a while.

"Unacceptable, Barton." Coulson shook his uninjured shoulder. "Don't make me write you up for disobeying a direct order."

"Sorry, sir, I know how much you hate filling out that form."

"If you know that, maybe you could stop making me fill it out?"

Clint decided that he was definitely hallucinating the fond smile on Coulson's lips. He tried to shrug apologetically but that just made his vision grey out for a moment from pain.

"I'll try, boss," he said.

"Barton, stay with me," Coulson said. "Don't you dare pass out."

"You shot me," Clint said hazily. "I still can't believe you shot me."

"I'm amazed that this is the first time," Coulson said.

"You wound me, sir." Clint was going to be embarrassed about that giggle later, if he lived. "Literally."

"You're not getting past that any time soon, are you?" Coulson asked.

"Probably not. You shot me."

His vision was starting to get blurry and Clint could feel the blood running down his arm, dripping onto the floor, and it was sticky and horrible and exactly the way he had never wanted to die.

"I'm bleeding on your suit," he mumbled.

"Not my priority right now, Barton," Coulson said.

"Yeah, but..." Clint lost his train of thought. "Sorry, sir. I think you'll have to fill out that form after all."

He could hear Coulson saying something as he passed out but the words made no sense and his hearing was getting a bit wonky and then everything faded into darkness.

***

Clint woke up with the complete conviction that there was something very important that he was supposed to remember. It was just the faintest wisp of a memory that floated away as soon as he tried to grasp it but he know that it was important somehow. If only he could remember why it was important.

The fuzziness in his head started to recede and he opened his eyes, squinting in the bright fluorescent lights. He shifted slightly in the bed and gasped because that definitely hurt. There were tubes feeding into the back of his hand and he could smell the combination of disinfectant and rubbing alcohol that always signaled hospital to him. Out of the corner of his eye he sensed movement and he turned his head carefully to see Natasha in a chair beside him, her feet on the bed.

"Hey sleepyhead," she said quietly. "I brought you grapes."

A bag with a mostly stripped former bunch of grapes on top sat in her lap.

"You're a really terrible hospital visitor, you know that right?" Clint said hoarsely.

Natasha shrugged. "You're in SHIELD medical, not a hospital."

"You still ate my grapes."

"I got hungry." Natasha selected another grape from the remaining few. "How much do you remember?"

"Coulson shot me."

"He said he had reasons."

"He still shot me."

There was an odd look in Natasha's face, almost like anticipation, but Clint had no idea what that could be about.

"Do you remember anything else?" she asked.

"He threatened to gag me," Clint said, that memory floating clear. "And he threatened to write me up if I disobeyed a direct order and died. It's all a bit fuzzy."

Natasha looked frustrated for a moment but the look was replaced with a smirk so quickly that he decided that he had imagined it.

"So, he threatened to gag you?" she said. "I'll bet you loved that."

"I was a little too bit busy to appreciate it, Nat. You know, with the dying."

She grinned at him. "You made an inappropriate comment."

"You'd be so proud of me. I didn't."

"Liar." Natasha sobered for a moment. "You know, you're a complete idiot."

Clint flipped her off, winced as the motion pulled on the stitches in his arm, and wished that he could remember what had been so important to remember when he woke up.


	5. Bondage, but not the kinky kind

The base below them looked quiet. No cars or trucks were moving, the three buildings that made up the base were all dark and the only sign of life was the pair of Hydra soldiers manning the gate. Unfortunately Clint already knew that the fifteen-foot high wall surrounding the base was electrified and the gate was the only way in.

Someone in Hydra was starting to get intelligent.

"Got a plan?" Clint whispered as he retreated back into the tree cover..

Someone in Hydra was also holding Natasha and they needed a way in.

"I have a plan," Coulson confirmed.

He looked tired and his jacket was showing the evidence of the last two days hiding out in the forest around the Hydra base. Coulson hated losing operatives on missions, a trait that Clint had appreciated several times over the years, and he had already stated several times that they were not going home without Natasha.

Hopefully Natasha would appreciate the sacrifice of yet another expensive suit and Clint's favourite bow, which had been smashed in their first abortive attempt at a midnight assault on the base.

"Do you trust me?" Coulson asked.

"Of course," Clint said and on reflection, he should have known that he was going to hate this plan because nobody ever asked that question with casual intent.

Coulson's punch still took him by surprise. They had a brief scuffle that Coulson won easily because Clint kept pulling his blows and Coulson didn't. Clint ended up lying on his chest, his mouth full of leaf litter, one arm twisted behind him and Coulson's knee firmly planted in the centre of his back to hold him down.

"Sorry about this," Coulson said.

"I hate your plan," Clint said irritably. "You'd also be a lot more convincing as a traitor if you didn't apologise for hitting me."

"It's a sound plan," Coulson said. "And the apology wasn't for that."

Clint heard a familiar swish sound that he recognised as a tie sliding away from Coulson's shirt collar. He made a half-hearted attempt to struggle and then allowed Coulson to grab his free arm, untwist his other arm and hold his wrists together. A moment later he felt silk wrap around his wrists.

"We're doing bondage, now?" Clint said. "Sir, I never knew you cared."

There was no response beyond an annoyed huff sound and Clint grinned into the leaf mulch. Coulson tied his hands together tightly enough to make escape difficult and slapped Clint's hands when he pulled experimentally at the knots.

"You are disturbingly good at that," Clint said.

Coulson's knee lifted from his back and a moment later Clint's arms felt like they were being pulled out of the sockets as Coulson pulled him to his feet by his bound hands. He stumbled for a moment and swore.

"Give a guy a bit of warning," he grumbled. "That hurt."

"It was supposed to," Coulson said and prodded him to start matching.

"You are having way to much fun with the role playing," Clint said as they emerged from the trees.

"Who said that I'm role playing?"

Clint bit back his immediate retort because they were probably within earshot of the guards. The problem with Coulson trying to play traitor was that Clint had known him for too long. There was only one other person that he trusted as much as he trusted Coulson and if Natasha ever pretended to go dark-side, there would be that tiny sliver of doubt there at the back of his mind.

"Excuse me," Coulson said as they approached the guards.

One of them jumped and even with the stupid green cowl on, Clint could tell that he was trying to work out where the fuck they had sprung from.

"State your business," the more observant of the guards ordered, pointing his gun at them.

"I'd like entry to your facility," Coulson said. "I'm switching sides."

He tugged on Clint's bound hands and Clint didn't have to fake the muffled yelp from the way that his shoulders twisted painfully again.

Both guards looked at the for a while and then one of them shrugged and stepped away to talk on his radio. The other one kept his gun trained on them. After a brief conversation the guard with the radio returned.

"Someone is coming for you," he said. "Keep your hands where I can see them."

Coulson raised his hands and put on his most innocent expression. Clint glared resentfully at everyone.

They had to wait for a couple of minutes before the gate opened and another pair of green-suited Hydra guards appeared to escort them into the compound. Clint didn't appreciate the number of times he got prodded in the back with a gun but it got them into the base commander's office so he was willing to overlook it for now.

As soon as they were in the office, their two guards moved to flank the door. The base commander wore olive green fatigues instead of the ugly green and yellow suit so beloved of most Hydra men and he smiled grimly at them.

"I understand you wish to pledge your loyalty to Hydra," the commander said, cutting straight to the matter at hand.

Coulson nodded. "I decided to take up your offer and I brought you a present."

"You've had offers?" Clint said, vaguely outraged.

"Three a month usually." Coulson shrugged. "None of them offered me anything I couldn't get from SHIELD."

The commander eyed them both suspiciously. "What changed your mind this time, Agent Coulson?"

"The salary," Coulson said. "Sorry, Barton. You know what our salary reviews looked like this year."

Despite their usual low level of competence, one of the guards grabbed Clint before he could take more than a step towards Coulson and twisted his arms up painfully.

"We usually prefer a purer motivation for coming to Hydra," the commander said, "but in your case, we'll take what we can get. Hail Hydra!"

Coulson echoed the slogan with the other guards and it was a good thing that Clint trusted him because otherwise he might have believed him.

"We can't let you have free access to the base, obviously," the commander said.

"I understand."

"But we'll make your stay as comfortable as we can," he continued. "You'll be transported to a more central base tomorrow for full processing. Welcome to Hydra."

"Thank you." Coulson smiled pleasantly. "What will happen to Hawkeye?"

"The agent coded-named Hawkeye will be held in our prison unit until we can arrange his execution." There was a glint of cruel enjoyment in his eyes. "A number of our more senior members wish to witness it."

Clint winced.

***

"This is the most embarrassing rescue I've ever seen," Natasha said as the cell door clanged shut.

Clint groaned, rolled over and tried to sit up which was not easy with his hands still tied behind his back.

"Is that Coulson's tie?" Natasha asked.

"Could you maybe give me a hand here?" Clint asked.

Natasha shifted slightly so that he could see her hands, which were chained behind her with the chain firmly attached to the floor so that her hands were bent at an uncomfortable angle. She was clearly unable to get free.

"I hate this plan," Clint said, settling for sitting half-slumped against the wall. "I really fucking hate this plan and Coulson's fucking ties."

Natasha smirked. "He tied you up and handed you over to them, didn't he?"

Clint shrugged.

"And he's probably sitting in a comfortable room somewhere drinking coffee while you rot in a cell."

"Probably."

"And you enjoyed him tying you up," Natasha said, taking far too much enjoyment in that.

"Fuck no," Clint said firmly. "Except maybe." He groaned. "Bastard."

"How did he convince the base commander that he'd gone dark side?" Natasha asked.

"He told them that he was in it for the money and looked really calm," Clint said. "Apparently he's been getting offers for years."

"I would be more surprised if he hadn't been," Natasha said.

"Do you get offers as well?" he asked.

Natasha rolled her eyes. "There's usually a monthly offer from Hydra and at least two offers from other organisations."

Clint frowned. "I feel oddly left out here. Nobody ever tries to bribe me to join their evil empire."

"I can't imagine why."

***

It was several hours before Coulson was able to get to them. Several long hours where Natasha recounted every possible reason why Coulson's betrayal may not have been faked and worked through every depressing, pointless outcome if that happened. Some of Natasha's musings could have been plausible if Coulson hadn't asked Clint whether he trusted him before that first punch.

Not that Clint was going to mention that part to Natasha. She would probably work out half a dozen ways that little moment proved Coulson had really gone over to Hydra.

The first clue that Coulson had not, in fact, betrayed anyone was when alarms began sounding throughout the complex. Natasha and Clint shared a grin and then watched their cell door expectantly. True to form, the door opened a minute later and Coulson pushed a bound and gagged guard inside.

"Your plan sucked, by the way," Clint said.

"My plan worked," Coulson said, crouching to free Natasha. "I simply miscalculated how badly you've pissed off Hydra over the years."

"I knew you hadn't really turned," Natasha said.

Clint glared at her. "You've just spent five hours trying to persuade me that he had."

Natasha's chains slid away with a quiet clink and Coulson turned to Clint, raising his eyebrows.

"Of course it didn't work, sir." Clint waggled his fingers. "Can you maybe untie me now?"

Coulson produced a knife from his jacket pocked and carefully sliced the tie away. "That was one of my favourites."

"We'll get SHIELD to buy you an other one." Clint rolled his shoulders and winced as his abused muscles protested the motion. "What's the next step in your master plan?"

"Now we walk out of here," Coulson said.

"No offence, sir, but why would Hydra just let us walk out of here?" Clint asked.

"They're a little busy right now trying to stop their base burning to the ground." Coulson paused and smiled. "They're also dealing with some power problems. And several of their Jeeps are about to explode."

Clint whistled. "I'm so very tu-" He cut off that thought immediately. "-ah, impressed, sir."

Natasha snickered, actually snickered, and Coulson looked puzzled.

"Don't worry about it," Clint said quickly. "It's the captivity, it finally got to her. You said something about walking out of here?"

***

They flew back to New York on an old transport plane and Natasha spent most of the flight in the cockpit where she at least had a comfortable seat. Coulson somehow managed to get hold of a book before they left and he settled uncomfortably to read. Clint took one look at the bench on the other side of the plane and shuddered. Instead he stretched out along the bench on Coulson's side of the plane, which at least had a thin cushion along it, and settled in for a good nap.

A sudden jolt startled him awake and he blinked blearily. Somehow in his sleep he had shifted until the top of his head was pressed against Coulson's thigh.

Coulson was looking down at him with a fond smile and something about that, the angle or the expression or maybe a combination of everything, triggered a memory. It was hazy and in his half-awake state Clint took a while to process it.

Coulson looking down at him.

Coulson saying something.

Coulson leaning closer.

Clint was suddenly completely awake and staring up at Coulson intently.

"Barton?" Coulson asked. "Are you alright?"

"You bastard," Clint said. "You kissed me. When that op went wrong and you shot me and I nearly died, you kissed me. And then you never said anything."

A faint flush crossed Coulson's cheeks. "It's not something that I'm proud of and you have my sincerest apology."

"I don't want your apology," Clint said. "I want to know why you've never done it again."

"I assumed you were trying to let me down discretely," Coulson said, looking the closest to flustered that Clint had ever seen. "I wasn't-"

The memory was becoming clearer and Clint could hear Coulson's voice from all those months ago, ordering him not to die and then saying something about caring and the future except it was jumbled and incoherent.

"Did it occur to you that I passed out as you were kissing me and maybe I didn't remember?" Clint asked.

There was a long pause before Coulson said, "No, that hadn't occurred to me."

Clint sat up, swung his legs down and shifted to sit as close to Coulson as he could. "Is that why Natasha keeps looking at me funny?"

"Well, she does that a lot anyway." Coulson frowned. "She was the first person to arrive on the scene, though. She may have...ah..."

"Seen you kiss me?" Clint asked. "I think she did. She was pretty weird in medical after and she kept calling me an idiot."

"To be fair, she does that a lot anyway as well."

"I'm going to kill her," Clint said.

"Why?"

"Because she could have told me and then I wouldn't have spent the last I don't know how long pretending that I don't..." Clint trailed off uncertainly.

"Pretending that you don't what?" Coulson said, so quietly that Clint could barely hear him over the sound of engines.

Clint didn't know when Coulson had got so close. He could feel the other man's breath on his lips and he hardly had to move to kiss him. The kiss was tentative and careful, barely more than a press of lips and warmth, but Clint felt rocked to his core. This was Coulson, they were kissing and he-

The plane jolted again, almost sending them both flying, and Natasha`s voice floated back to them.

"Better strap in," she called. "Looks like we're having a bumpy ride in. New York is getting some weather."

As Clint buckled into his seat, he glanced over at Coulson. There was a small smile on Coulson's face, one that Clint had never seen before. Clint nudged his shoulder and mouthed "later", suspecting that his face also looked unusually happy when Coulson nodded.


	6. Ties are for wearing, too

Clint had been in Phil's apartment before - it was definitely Phil, first name privileges came with kisses - but he had never been alone in Phil's apartment alone before. Not that Phil knew he was here, but Clint figured that if he hadn't wanted Clint in his apartment then he would have installed a better security system.

This was either going to be really great or result in the biggest sexual harassment complaint in SHIELD's history.

Clint was hoping for option one. He felt moderately confident in option one given the way that Phil had kissed him the moment that they were alone in a corner of his office not covered by cameras, but there was always a chance that he had misread things. Maybe.

There was always a chance that Phil was still misreading things and was stubbornly clinging to his misconception that their entire mutual *thing* was unrequited. Clint intended to make sure that Phil was in no doubt about how strongly he felt.

He was still slightly annoyed with Phil over it all because the memories had returned completely now and the thing that Phil had apparently ignored was this: before Clint passed out, he had kissed back.

Maybe he hadn't been able to do anything particularly dramatic or heart-felt due to the imminent unconsciousness, but he had definitely tried to kiss back.

And Phil had either missed it or been so far into denial that he hadn't wanted to know about it. So they had spent months making a ridiculous mess of everything and Natasha had spent months laughing at both of them when the solution could have been so simple.

Maybe Clint's plan was a little more dramatic than it needed to be, but apparently Phil needed the direct approach and one thing Clint was good at was direct.

He heard the sound of the apartment door closing and there was a moment of complete panic. Maybe he should have done this in the living room? They did have history on that couch after all.

The sound of Phil's footsteps took that decision out of his hands and Clint stood up, took a deep, calming breath and reminded himself that there were at least two exits from the bedroom. He tracked Phil's footsteps down the small hallway, stopping at the door to the living room and then moving on slowly and quietly towards the bedroom door. Phil paused and Clint could imagine him stopping to listen, maybe straightening his jacket, before pushing the door open.

Phil pushing open the door and pointing a gun at him was not on his list of potential scenarios and Clint reflected that it should probably have been at the top of the list. This was Phil Coulson, after all.

Clint smiled. "Hi?"

Phil lowered the gun a little and frowned. "Hi."

"I thought you'd know it was me," Clint said. "I left my jacket on the chair, the one that I was wearing earlier. I know you're more observant than this."

"You leave your jacket on that chair half the time you're here." Phil lowered the gun completely. "And then you bitch at me until I bring it into work for you."

"Oh. Huh."

"Not that I'm not happy to see you, but why are you here?" Phil holstered the gun but stayed in the hallway.

"I thought we should talk properly," Clint said, "before either of us could forget what happened and not talk about it for six months again. You looked like you'd be in that meeting for a while and I ran out of excuses to wait for you so. Here I am."

There was a moment of silence and then Phil laughed. In anyone else Clint might have classified the laughter a being on the edge of hysteria.

"You actually think we can talk when you look like that?" Phil said, gesturing vaguely.

"What's wrong with the way I look?"

Phil's gaze travelled down Clint's body slowly and Clint felt his skin heat with a mixture of lust and embarrassment.

"You're naked," Phil said, looking into Clint's face and away from his chest with obvious reluctance. "It's difficult to discuss anything serious when you're naked."

"Naked implies no clothes," Clint replied quickly. "I'm wearing something, so I'm not naked."

"You're wearing one of my ties," Phil said. "That doesn't count. Why are you wearing one of my ties?"

"It seemed symbolic," Clint said, taking a step forward and feeling a sense of relief when Phil did the same.

"I'm not sure that I'll ever understand you," Phil said.

"I don't understand me most of the time, so that works out fine."

Phil took another step forward. "I'm still not sure why you're here."

"I thought that was obvious."

"Enlighten me then," Phil said. "I'm starting to think that I've been completely misreading some things for a long time."

Clint took a step forward, standing close enough that he would only have to twitch his hand a little to touch Phil. "We've both been misreading things for months. Maybe years. I thought this would guarantee that we were both certain about how I feel."

"You might not have been obvious enough yet," Phil said dryly and it was that hint of dry humour that finally allowed Clint to smile and relax.

He reached out and pressed a thumb to Phil's lips, swiping along them slowly and shivering slightly as Phil moved his lips in something that could almost be a kiss. Touching Phil's lips led to tracing his jawline with a knuckle and then burying his fingers in the hair at the base of Phil's neck.

"Is this obvious enough?" Clint whispered against Phil's lips.

He kissed Phil slowly, gently, taking his time to learn the shape of Phil's mouth and his taste. There was a moment where Phil didn't move, apparently still surprised despite all the build-up, and then there was a hand on Clint's hip and an arm wrapping around his back to pull him close. The rough touch of Phil's suit against his bare skin shouldn't have felt so good and Clint gasped.

Phil took the initiative and licked his way into Clint's mouth and this was definitely better than the kiss in Phil's office because they were getting to know each other now. No uncertainty, no teeth or noses in the wrong place, just the give and take of a long, breathless kiss.

Clint pushed at Phil's jacket and pulled Phil's shirt free of his waistband, hungry for skin and contact. He tore away from the kiss to catch his breath and got thoroughly distracted by nuzzling at the point where Phil's jaw met his neck because that made Phil moan low in his throat.

"In case you were wondering," Phil said breathlessly, "I feel the same way."

Clint grinned and grabbed a fistful of Phil's shirt to begin tugging him towards the bed. "I wouldn't have guessed."

"Too subtle?"

Phil's shirt, holster and jacket hit the floor and Clint made a sound that he hoped was less awful than the 'hnng' that he heard. It wasn't exactly a surprise, the dirigible thing had given him a strong impression of what Phil's body would look like, but he'd had no idea just how much he wanted to see for himself.

"What were we talking about?" Clint said, licking his lips.

"I don't actually care right now," Phil said.

Clint grinned and reached out to help Phil with his pants while Phil kicked off his shoes, a process that ended up with both of them falling onto the bed and Phil's pants halfway across the room. There was kissing and touching and Clint might have been embarrassed at how quickly Phil discovered how much he liked having his nipples played with if it hadn't felt so good.

He started to remove the tie that he had stolen, aware that it was getting crushed and mangled as they rolled around on the bed, but Phil stopped him with a hand on his wrist.

"I've got other ones," Phil said.

Clint grinned down at him. "Is this a thing for you? Me, sex and your tie?"

Phil grabbed the tie and used it to pull him down for a kiss, grinding his hips up against Clint's slowly as he did so, and neither of them said anything coherent for a long time.

"I am going to abuse so many of these," Clint said breathlessly later, holding up the end of the mistreated tie.

"I'm looking forward to it," Phil said. "I'll buy some just for you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For once, Fahre is only to blame in the sense of having said "bolas" when I was completely lost on chapter three. And maybe egging me on to expand the uses from three to, er, six.
> 
> Fucking ties.


End file.
